


Penitent

by courtingkaleidoscopes



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Broken Bones, Eaten alive, Eggs, Eversion - Freeform, Gore, Hurt No Comfort, Inflation, Mpreg, Other, Oviposition, PWP, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-immolation via Light, Spiders, Suspension, Vomiting, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtingkaleidoscopes/pseuds/courtingkaleidoscopes
Summary: Ardyn has some eggs laid inside him. They don't sit very well.





	Penitent

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the distant past, right after his "failure" as the Chosen One. 
> 
> This was written because _some_ people started talking about there not being enough mpreg Ardyn. Mpreg isn't really my thing, but eggs...well. 
> 
> Enjoy C;

{

Ardyn pauses in the doorway. He knocks--once, twice, braces himself. A minute passes. No muted shushing, no screams or curses, no swinging clubs or slashing swords. Another knock, another minute.

Oh. No one’s here.

With nothing to drive him back, he approaches. 

“Astrid?” he tries.

An answering cry--very soft, from the far end of the house. Ardyn stumbles closer, trailing his hand along the wall for support before he sees her, lying on the floor, clutching at her swollen arachnid abdomen with one long, thin leg, half-human face twisted with pain. It’s her. They must have abandoned her here.

“Oh,” she gasps. “You c-came back f-for m--”

“Shh, shh. Don’t waste your breath.” Ardyn closes his eyes, gathering what strength he can. She’s too far gone, he knows, but he must still try. The Light is agony to hold, burning his fingers, pulling the darkness from her body into his until it courses through his veins, spills from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, until the contact is suddenly broken.

Ardyn opens his eyes. His fingers have burnt away to white-hot cinders. Astrid, her face now wholly her own again, is staring at him in horror. “Y-your Highness?”

“Not a prince anymore,” Ardyn manages to choke out past the black tar in his throat. “Just a monster.” 

Already, his traitorous fingers are growing back. If only they’d lasted a little longer. Perhaps he can try again--

“No! Don’t--don’t touch me.”

“All right.” He’ll come back for her. Even if she’s completely turned by then, he’ll--

He stumbles and falls, hard. 

}{

When he comes to, it’s nighttime, his head aches, and there is an Arachne hovering above him. A very gravid Arachne, examining him far too closely. One long, wickedly curved leg brushes against his neck, down his torso, and pauses. 

Ardyn closes his eyes.

_ (The Astrals tell much of how the Chosen may cure the Starscourge, yet naught on how the Chosen may fail.) _

She’s very quick, ripping off his clothes with deft motions. There’s a wet sensation around his hole, and his legs are pushed up and wide apart, then wider  _ (snap _ , left hip dislocates--Ardyn sucks in a breath), then wider  _ (snap,  _ right hip dislocates--the breath shudders in his lungs).

_ (He can fix it. He knows he can. Should his fingers fail, his palms must suffice. Should his palms fail, his arms must suffice. His shoulders. His legs. His chest. His--) _

Then there’s a suction, as her abdomen creates a sticky seal around his puckered opening. 

_ (He’s just not trying hard enough.) _

And then, something pushes at his opening. His hole stretches as the tip of the hard eggshell forces its way in, tearing his skin at the edges, thick blood oozing and gushing in as the skin rips, his sphincters are tearing (one, two), yet the egg continues to grow in diameter--wider and wider--his pulse is pounding in his ears, he’s getting lightheaded, he may be making a noise, it won’t fit--

_ Crack.  _

He cries out as his pelvis  _ breaks  _ in two, blood and scourge and exposed fat welcoming the egg in as it finally pushes past. He can feel the bulge, see it traveling up his abdomen--breathe--and there’s another. And another. And another. His belly stretches and grows, girth doubling, and then tripling. The eggs push against each other, jostling for space and pulping his guts between their hard shells as more crowd in, squeezing up his rib cage, cracking his sternum and shredding his lungs, but why would he need to breathe when he’s coughing and vomiting masses of organs and tissue, bitter and metallic and ah, there goes his heart.

_ (She deserves at least this, for his failure.) _

}{

He awakens, once again.

He shallowly inhales, filling new lungs malformed and squeezed to a fraction of their normal volume, cramped and overworked heart fluttering wildly between them. Each breath sends a shock through his still-broken sternum. He can feel the eggs underneath it resting on his spine, forcing his ribcage to remain open. And beneath that, a grotesque bulge that stretches his skin taut and extends his girth five-fold.

He shifts a little and nearly blacks out as the eggs inside all shift along with him. He slowly rolls to one side, his belly forced to the other, and somehow, eventually, gets on his hands and knees. He crawls on shaking limbs, belly dragging on the floor, dripping blood and guts and scourge from his ass, his eyes, his mouth, gurgling as he gasps for breath after shallow breath. 

He reaches a chair, tries to pull himself up--fails--tries again--and his arms give out, muscles spasming as the chair crashes to the floor. Pathetic.

There’s a skittering sound.

Ah, she’s still here.  _ Astrid.  _ His lips form the word, but he lacks the air to speak. 

She inspects him, grabs his arms, and  _ pulls _ \--

}{

He’s suspended in her web by hands and feet, limbs splayed and vaguely vertical. His healed pelvis prevents the eggs from exiting, but it might break again under the sheer weight of them.

He’s thirsty, but it’s not as if his digestive system is anywhere near complete, much less operational. If he took in anything, it would probably just join the steady trickle of half-formed and crushed innards leaking below him. Not that he thinks much of it. Not that he can think much of anything, oxygen-deprived body constantly on the verge of shutting down.

Astrid regards him, her head cocked thoughtfully. She pushes one spindly leg into his mouth, past his throat, through his lungs to push the eggs down his further cracking chest, stretching his middle impossibly further as they suddenly pop out beneath his ribs. She extracts her leg. Ardyn gurgles, choking on blood and scourge as they quickly fill his malformed lungs through the puncture.

_ Thank you,  _ he mouths.

}{

Astrid leaves after that.

With his lungs and heart fully formed again, it’s a bit easier for Ardyn to think. His back is beginning to ache, spine pulling out of alignment, and breathing is becoming somewhat harder rather than easier. He attributes it solely to positional discomfort--not rising panic, not from having been suspended like this before, pelted with spit and shit and rotten fruit and rocks and then the  _ knives-- _ no, no, NO. No. His daggers materialize in his hands and he almost immediately drops them, muscles in his forearms twitching with exhaustion. Clumsily, he shifts his grip so the blade faces inward, and begins to cut the fibers. He drops the blade three times (the one in his left four times--he cuts the tendon with a sudden spasm, and there goes the control for that hand) before admitting defeat. No fire spells...fine. He’ll do it the hard way. 

Somehow, he always imagines the Light would burn less than it actually does. He bites back half a yelp as he forces it through his fingers, his hands and feet. His mind is alight with pain, but there’s a tiny sliver clinging to coherency that considers burning the eggs away inside him--he loses it as soon as the Light travels that far into his core, his vision blurs, he pulls the Light back, he might be screaming, it’s too easy to just let go of it completely and…

No. He calls it back, fuck if he’s making any noise, he just needs to get this webbing off off off, fingers off, toes off, feet off, hands off, ankles off, legs dangling, wrists off--

He falls, catching himself on the Light-cauterized stubs of his forearms--and then his enormous stomach smashes into the floor, the rock-hard eggs within crushing the skin of his abdomen against the floor and punching several vertebrae out of place--and thus he doesn’t feel his kneecaps shatter on the hard floor. The stumps at the end of his legs twitch. He vomits black and red. Out. He needs to get out of here. 

Ardyn inches forward on his elbows, dragging the rest of his useless body behind him. He can feel the eggs clattering against each other from his jostling them along the floor, stretching his skin tight and shiny and so thin he can feel the deepest layer tearing and somewhere in the back of his mind he’s wondering why he can’t see through his belly already. The constant drip of pulpy insides from his ass turns into a trickle as the aftermath of the fall leaves its trail. 

He considers cutting the eggs out of his body. He considers who they came from, and why they came about. (If only he could have healed her--healed any of the others.) He stops considering.

}{

A small, quiet linen closet. The eggs press his belly and spine against the walls, his ribs up against each other. He’s had some time to get used to the constant pressure within (most of his insides have even managed to reform themselves between the eggs, and he’s careful to stay still) but now he’s thirsty, he’s hungry, but the feeling is nothing short of ridiculous when his belly is literally spilling out of the doorway. He laughs and finds himself gasping for breath as the motion shifts the eggs within him.

They don’t stop shifting.

He grits his teeth as blood and scourge gush between them, bitter and metallic. Something shivers within him. The first shard of eggshell presses insistently against his skin, imprinting its pattern of spreading cracks as it strains to open--and then, pinpricks of resistance inside, tapping against the others that are also cracking, they’re all emerging and the shards are piercing liver, guts, bladder, stomach, and then something  _ rips  _ and those are jaws, they’re  _ eating him  _ and punching through bone and his howling scream and then their sharp fangs tear through his throat and he’s left with voiceless gurgling, they’re inside his lungs and he can’t breathe, snap crunch tear  _ break,  _ and then they’re bursting out of his belly, bloody and prickly, some leaving and some eating him from the  _ outside  _ too, chunks of flesh and bone and lips and ears and eyes and his mouth must still be open because there goes his tongue too. 

Finally, the last one leaves. Somehow, he’s still awake, blind and deaf and paralyzed, broken and utterly spent. What’s left of his nerves can sense himself seeping into the floorboards, black scourge leaking from every orifice (broken nose, lipless mouth, ruined eye sockets in some disgusting mockery of tears), lying prone in a monstrous mess.

Eventually, cell by cell, his body will be painfully anew. Eventually, he’ll find the next house, the next person he failed. 

Eventually, he’ll make it right.

}


End file.
